


The Lost Chapter: Masters Of Hiding

by ImpossibleElement



Series: The Dragon's Spell [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bioluminescence, Dragons, Drama, Fantasy, Heroes & Heroines, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Oceans, Pirates, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Teenlock, Under the Sea: A Descendants Story, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25310776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: "The king was never to know Sherlock often left him there in the middle of the night and sneaked out to do this; he would never stop worrying, and the rebel had a more pressing matter plaguing his mind at the moment."----------SEQUEL TO THE ROTTEN APPLE AND THE FORGOTTEN OCEAN***Next part of The Dragon's Spell up now!***
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Dragon's Spell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1014522
Kudos: 6





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This instalment is a little prequel before the last part of my Descendants inspired Trilogy (normal novel length).
> 
> Disclaimer: This work is loosely based on a plot line of Disney's Descendants Franchise. If you haven't seen it, or don't like it, please know that you can read it and understand everything. None of the actual characters of Descendants appear. For those of you who have seen it, you know where this is going. Also, there are a few nods to the original hidden not very subtly in the narration.
> 
> Hope you all like it.
> 
> COME BACK TOMORROW FOR PART II.

[ ](https://ibb.co/TYK0B7h)

> _ Hiding is one of the first skills you must master before you plan to become a villain mastermind, or even a common criminal.  
> Nothing is more important than the art of escape and deception. _

There was a reason why Sherlock chose to do this cloaked by the shade of night, while the realm slept the time away and dreamed of imageries dull enough to make even their boring little lives seem interesting in comparison. Although, if he were being honest —which had never been his brand— coming here alone without plan of escape or knowledge of what he would be facing did seem quite foolish in hindsight.

The sky above him was clear tonight, —just as it was every single day on the ever-prospering United Kingdom of Auradon; the cool breeze swept by and brushed frozen fingers over his skin. The leather coat on his shoulders did nothing to keep the sensation at bay, which made no real amount of sense considering what was immediately in front of him. 

The profound silence permeated even the green of the trees around him, as if something had completely suck up all the noise, as if the world itself were as curious of the situation, just still in anticipation. The sound of a solitary leave crunching under the sole of his heavy boot as he took a hesitant step back the only respite permitted out of the chasm. He took a step back from the fire at the centre of a clearing. From the very glowing, very _blue_ fire to be precise. 

The violet haired boy had only seen its like once before, too many cycles ago to remember it properly. And more alarming perhaps than its rumoured power was its impossibility to be there, of all places. Magic of that sort impossible to be bled out from anyone this side of the dome. The electric cyan flames lapped the air in their proximity with vigour, but not expanding or claiming territory; just shooting upwards with a worrying growth. Sherlock, against better judgement —for which he wasn’t famed in the first place— approached once more and crouched down, frowning as he took in the mesmerising nature of the spell before him.

This was nothing like the blue sprites often roaming this part of the Enchanted Forest, who sparked prettily around you and added ambience more than threat of destruction. No, this was something else. Something possibly lethal, and all Sherlock really desired to do was reach out and grab it. 

His arm extended towards it, stopping just shy of coming into contact, but close enough to feel the tingling of the magic on the tip of his fingers. Not an ounce of hesitation shown even if he was certain were he to plunge his hand inside, he would come off with more than just burnt fingers. The danger shot up his veins like pleasure at the thought, as his kaleidoscope eyes studied and analysed the deep indigo undertones in the flames. 

John Watson was probably sleeping soundly at the other end of the kingdom at the moment, completely ignorant of what his boyfriend had gotten himself into. Sherlock imagined John would love the respite of not being included for once, the rebel often doubling as the bane of his life on even the least trying days. But perhaps he would be able to enjoy it more were he awake and aware of said developments —which the purple haired boy had decided would not happen. The king was never to know Sherlock often left him there in the middle of the night and sneaked out to do this; he would never stop worrying, and the rebel had a more pressing matter plaguing his mind at the moment, not to mention the king already had too much on his plate aside from the strange dreams he was having.

The self-appointed task was not something he discussed in detail with the blonde, —in this case ‘ _in detail’_ meaning ‘ _at all’—_.He knew John suspected something was up, of course he did, he was no Auradonian simpleton; but that was the way their trust seemed to work; the king extended never-ending barrels of it, only for Sherlock to arguably abuse it when the situation required and let him in at the worst possible moment; specially when it involved the whole kingdom. 

But this had nothing to do with trust or patriotic duty, the rebel had no deep interest in either when it didn’t involve a head of shaggy blonde hair. This quest was entirely founded in personal old desires and remorse, of a game he was not even sure how he had won. And more than defeat, he despised uncertainty. 

He had found, almost by accident, an ancient passage in the new book of spells he was engulfing more than the dinner John forced him to have, —Lady Hudson had no idea he had graduated from the one Moriarty had given him and had been borrowing tomes from her personal library— a small paragraph detailing strange magical spikes in the deepest part of the Enchanted Forest for a long time, things that had happened several cycles prior to the War of the Light, and were told to have left imprints of information in their wake. Sherlock was thirsty for any sort of explanation or answer he could find, so out he went. 

However, now looking at the flames he could not say he felt more enlightened. There was certainly more than symbols and old hieroglyphs there, but the oxygen exhausted from the burning left behind more questions than answers. His growing experience with incantations allowed him to know the spell had been casted way before the barrier went up; yet it surely must require _‘new magic’_ to feed from, and a great amount of it judging by the intensity. No mere Auradon citizen was capable enough to power such a thing for long, so where was all the magic coming from? Sherlock’s calculating brain endeavoured to come up with a plausible explanation. Criminals like him were supposed to be locked away under a dome, left to rot in their own magic-less word with the key lost to the world. This sort of misbehaviour was impossible to find outside of The Isle when it didn’t involve the three citizens who were raised on it, which made a dark suspicion grow within him as he realised this could potentially prove correct his theory about his _other_ problem.

At this pondering, it was then he got startled out of the trance. Jostled awake from a sleep-walking reality. He found both his hands and upper body were bent forward, so close to the fire he was sure he would have stumbled inside had he stayed entranced for much longer. There was something in the chasm that compelled him along, a hidden power pulsing, attempting to draw him in. 

He stood back in surprise and smirked. Finally, something _fun._

The violet-haired boy paced around the bonfire, his features bright under the blue haze as he regarded the surprising danger in front of him. There was an unexpected gravity that seemed to echo inside his head as if his name were being called out from the blaze, ready to possess him if his attention was divided for just a moment. He stopped, and rubbed his cold hands together preparing for some experimentation on what was becoming a very promising night.

The first spell was direct, a simple attempt to snuff out the flames. He extended his arms and light rushed out from his fingers twinkling under the moonlight, but as soon as it got close, it dissipated into thin air as if it had never existed. The fire left completely unaffected by his attack. 

The rebel sighed, turned up his collar and tried again; this time a more sophisticated endeavour to transfigure the spell, to turn it on its head; but once more, his attempts were met with immobile stubbornness. This time Sherlock did snarl in frustration, and casted a quick succession of incantations, but nothing seemed to be working. The cyan fire burned exactly the same as when he had found it. Appearing unable to be moved by any natural magical means.

He berated himself for his own blindness when the answer appeared before him as if he were reading deductions in bold letters around a person. He took a deep, focusing breath, and the palms of his hands came up to rest under his chin. He set on chasing away the white noise from his head and leave a rushing sparkling intention behind, with eyes shut, he reached for it, —allowing the sensation to grow enough to control it— and when he blinked them opened again their colour had gone from metallic silver to lime green. 

The change the black magic provoked in him was instantaneous, feeling as if the energy trapped inside him was now just anxious to burst out, instead of concealed and dormant as was usual. Sherlock smothered down the pull of The Dragon inside his mind, asking too to be let out into the world, and focused. He smiled as he set free his chasm, confident now that it surely would make a difference; and the second the spell made contact with its objective the violet-haired found out just _how._

The fire gripped the magic like a lifeline, absorbing and swallowing as if it were _digesting_ it. Sherlock frowned as he attempted to detract his hands, but his arms seemed locked in place, the fire pulling at him strongly as his vision started going blurry. While he hadn’t mastered fully how to tame the Dragon’s Spell yet, he was certain that wasn’t normal. He put all his power and intention behind setting free, struggling to keep the energy inside as the flames grew and lapped wildly; only managing it when he made The Dragon recede back into the caves of his mind to hide once more.

The fire consumed what it could and then returned to serenity, appearing almost smaller in its calm rest; and Sherlock was left standing there, panting in bewilderment as the green pools in his eyes swirled back to a stormy grey. The rebel stared at his smoking hands, confusion invading him as he wondered about the reason why it had grabbed onto him in such a way, almost physically; and what that meant for his abilities.

His gaze searched the scene around, as if he were expecting someone else to have witnessed what had just happened. The sprites were gone, frightened away from the clearing as the trees remained still and silent, not even a squirrel in sight. He was completely alone, with not a soul knowing where he had gone; just him and the strange fire. As if only them remained in the whole world. 

The voice inside his head grew louder in the dead of the night, overwhelming the usual inner displaying of the information his brain was constantly firing at him. Filling the halls of his Mind Palace with its insidious calling. Sherlock was not about to be drawn in again of course, knowing now what it wanted from him; but the experience was very far from pleasant. Still he held his ground, he hadn’t faced scarier things only to cower away at the sight of blue fire. That is not to say that he had never lost a round, but this is what he did on an almost daily basis, and frankly, his heart pounding adrenaline through his veins was reason enough to engage.

Blowing away the purple curls from his eyes he got closer and put his hands forward. He made an attempt to stop it somehow, but not being able to use his most powerful spells in fear they would get ingested again, his hands were very much tied in that department. He tried a basic approach, but his troubles were met with an undesired outcome; the flames grew bigger under the attention, like they had been awaken and were now ready to take a more offensive stance. 

He took a moment to stare at it in question, wondering how such a thing could be real. No matter how many hypotheses he twisted in his head, the facts didn’t add up; not with what he knew of wizardry neither with every fundamental natural law of the universe. It was basically impossible, and he was on his way to getting fed up with being at the tail-end of things going beyond the realm of possibility. His life made no amount of sense. Not this, nor his freedom or The Dragon, and certainly not Moriarty.

The conclusion was he couldn’t manipulate the flames in any way without aiding in their quest to devour his magic, or who knows what other ability they would show now they had sampled a taste of what they could win. The only thing he could do was work with its surroundings. He circled his hands and resorted to enchanting the ground and air around it, making it so the fire couldn’t advance. If eradicating it wasn’t possible, —as would be ideal— then at least he could confine it to a place where it wouldn’t escape or inflict its destruction over the kingdom. The rebel chose to ignore the irony he found in this. He _really_ had no time for it. 

He set to work quickly, satisfied when he saw his tentative plan had worked and the fire appeared contained for the time being. He lowered his hands as his breathing slowed down to normal. The forest around him was unchanged and painted blue by the light coming from the flames, and that was a potential for a problem he didn’t need at the moment. The rebel crouched down and snapped off long branches from the nearby trees to shield its glow. Once the fire was completely hidden, his mind wondering whether it had been truly necessary to keep humans from trying to interact with it, he realised he had been thinking small. 

The scope of his vision tunnelled by the mesmeric nature of what he had experienced. No amount of skill will get rid of the chasm, and it was unlikely anyone but him could do anything with or to it, but the real importance rested with whom lied the responsibility of keeping it alive. The one who was powering it. Sherlock knew only of one person who fitted the profile, —since he hadn’t done it and Moriarty thankfully remained captured inside the cobwebs of his own mind. 

And that just left one person. Someone of whom he had lost track; not certain they were actually sent back to The Isle, but not sure if they were in the kingdom either. Someone who had an entire ocean in which to hide, and Sherlock thought it was long past time to see that threat extinguished. The spider had said —more like warned— to him that something or _someone_ was coming; coming to find him and destroy his world once they did. And, as dramatic as he was, he was still rarely wrong. 

_‘Well,’_ He thought. _‘Not if I come for them first.’_

On a whim, he turned around and ran. He rushed trough he woods and over the white sand of the beach with one objective in mind, as he ignored the sound his heavy boots made when they slapped the planks of wood on the dock. He ran until there was no surface left and with one deep breath plunged himself into the vast black ocean tides.


	2. Part II

He had anticipated the terror a sea so vast would inflict upon his soul the very moment the water touched his skin —never having been particularly, or at all, fond of deep waters— but the cold came as a surprise. Night had rendered the water just above freezing and all the muscles in his body suffered greatly for it. His body began to sink slowly, the coat floating around him as if he were suspended in a night firmament so dark you could hardly see anything around you, and nothing from below. 

Perhaps it would have been good measure to try this spell before literally diving headfirst into it, but caution had never really been his forte. Him, hardly a _‘beginner_ ’ in any circumstance. Now was the perfect and only time to perform it, to satisfy his curiosity on seeing whether he could really circumvent his inability —or inexistent desire to learn how— to swim using magic and never bother with it again after its usefulness had been spent. He didn’t see himself making use of such a spell again when it didn’t involve getting a hold of his stray sister, and he knew himself enough to know he would have never even attempted so if not for the desperate circumstances; what better motivation was there than his own destruction upon failure?

He concentrated beyond the panic and distress as the enchantment in his mind rushed through him and he did his best to ride the undertow. His lungs filled with oxygen and the water around him appeared to support his weight instead of desiring to pull him under. He had no way of reliably determining how deep the ocean bed was from his feet or how many kilometres the water around him extended. And he found he didn’t care. Stupid small things such as time and measures were of no consequence there, where the black stretched around him endlessly. For the first time in eons he didn’t feel as if he were sinking through the surface of the earth. The fear was not gone. It was very much present still, but it was exactly what made him relish this, now that there was no threat of succumbing to its force, the fear was welcome. 

The spell had worked.

Some oceanic night creatures crept around him, not close enough to interact, but Sherlock could discern their shapes passing by through the darkness. He continued forward, the alien sensation of moving across water making him smirk in curiosity as he advanced. His silver gaze scanned what he was able to in his proximity, swiftly covering some space in his search for the witch of the sea he had misplaced after his attempt to banish her back into The Isle; with no way of knowing whether he had been successful. 

For a few seconds he squinted at his surroundings, but there was no way he would be able to find someone as skilled at hiding with such poor lighting. There was no reason to be inconspicuous now, if his sister was indeed still roaming those tides, she knew he was there the moment his heavy boots had touched the water. In his head he composed a string of chants and created a spell to aid him. After a moment, the rebel opened his eyes slowly, anticipating the full view of the ocean’s depths, only to find no change before him. The rebel turned around, frowning as he calculated the reason his spell didn’t seem to have made a difference. His vision wandered aimlessly, until from above him, he was startled to make out tiny little sparks that appeared hovering near the surface. First just a few, then hundreds growing bright as they created a shinning ceiling over him made entirely of glowing jellyfish. The vast of the oceans lighting up around it as he hovered alone below.

Sherlock wasn’t one to care for such things, beauty not often an important detail for him to note. He noticed it as he took in any other information to assess from an object, only relevant as a mean to the end of understanding the deductions entering his brain. Yet not even him could dismiss this. His kaleidoscope eyes turned upwards to wonder at the incredible sight as they too reflected back the tiny blue ocean stars. Thankfully Lestrade and Irene were not there to watch him gape at the sight like an idiot.

He smiled in satisfaction at how his intention had been interpreted by the universe, then turned to face once again the vastness of the sea, except now its mysterious planes had revealed some of their secrets. He could see the animals more clearly and in the distance he could barely make out a shape, some silhouette partially concealed by the colourful reefs —now painted with an azure glow— in his line of vision. A very _large_ silhouette, that was potentially more massive than he could calculate from his position. 

He swam forwards —still attempting to lock the sensation to the furthest part of his Mind Palace where it could not send his concentration away from the chasm that was currently keeping him alive— and rushed to it, recognising the shape as a sunken ship once he was close enough to notice the broken mast and vessel body. It appeared to be part of the royal’s fleet. There was even a wooden mermaid carved smiling at the figure head, but the violet-haired boy doubted her rotten expression had been any less disturbing before it had capsized. The whole ship had suffered severe water damage, as if it had been there for several cycles already, and he quickly recognised the reason. 

The wood on one side looked as if it had been attacked by cannons or some other instrument of combustion. Almost the whole rear left side was gone; and there were scorch marks at the edges of the remaining planks. He figured this was the perfect place for a psychotic pirate to hole up in and he may as well had found the biggest entrance.

The inside was in no better shape than the exterior. If anything, the decaying furniture was even more striking in its vacancy of living entities. The destruction left no survivors in terms of material possessions, but he couldn’t identify anything that indicated human —or humanoid— remains, as if the ship had already been empty before it had gone under. 

A battle was the most probable explanation, and judging by its location it could only mean one thing. For not the first time Sherlock wondered whether The War of the Light had really been intended at such scale or if it had just spiralled out of the royal’s hands. Surely even morons like them should have known the amount of desolation it would leave behind would not work in either of their favours. Or perhaps that was exactly the point, since there was already someone perfect in which to place the blame; not to say his mother wasn’t deserving of much more than what she actually got. 

He sighed and inspected his surroundings once more for good measure, even if he suspected that for all the deserted piece of goods present, what he was really looking for wouldn’t be found there. It was a stretch and he knew it, Eurus was not Moriarty, irony or satire were not anywhere near her brand, but he had no other leads. 

Sherlock stretched his body forward, letting the coat float behind him as he silently analysed what remained of a drawing desk for any clues. Finding none, he moved on to what was left of the sofa and next to it he found a chest. An old-fashion metal trunk intricately chiseled and appearing to have come out from every stereotypical nautical fairy-tale. The rebel rolled his eyes in exasperation at always finding himself in such situations and pushed the lid open, taking in the shiny gold contents, which appeared to be just normal riches as he had anticipated. His hand extended and picked up a medallion, he frowned as his silver gaze took in its engraving. It appeared to be some royally owned ancient relic that was probably worth millions. Sherlock stared at his own reflection on its metal surface for a moment, then tossed it aside when something far more interesting caught his vision. Through a hole in the structure of the ship he could see several pale rock formations outside, however, their shapes were not in mere amorphic nature; but distinct and recognisable in pattern. 

The silver gazed moved towards the opening to confirm his deductions and wonder at the unexpected sight of human statues. Dozens of them, standing at the bottom of the ocean in no particular arrangement. Dead eyed, still and silent. And quite eerie in their own questioning existence. Whoever had sculpted them had clearly been at the height of skill, since they were so life-like you could almost perceive vibrance underneath their stone-made skin. The rebel felt a cloying sensation invade him the more he stared.

Sherlock pondered whether the same villain responsible for the black ritual in the woods could have placed them there as some part of their chasm, and if perhaps the ship was searching for them before being attacked. Not realising they were being murdered just on top of what they so desired to find. What he couldn’t understand was why there was no hint of any of this in any book he encountered, and why the kingdom was filled with gaps in information every way he turned. He made sure to add it to the ever-growing list of cases to which there appeared to be no solution. Once this whole _‘Eurus roaming free and Moriarty potentially cursing the whole kingdom in advance’_ business was done, —granting he had managed to come out of it not dead or in custody— he anticipated to be very busy finding answers to every one of them. 

The rebel stared at the sculptures a moment more, the quiet mystery not abating from his soul. He swam backwards, anxious to proceed and get this whole thing over with so he could return to yearned dry land; when he heard something through the waves. A faint noise that sounded very much like drowned laughter but with nothing ordinary to be found in it. The same he had heard on the woods and had seemed to follow him all the way there. While his heart pounded in his ears, he rushed towards it, expecting to find prove of what he already suspected; he passed banks of fish until the ship’s outline was just a shadow in the distance at his back; but every time he thought he was coming closer, the direction from which it came changed, and after several minutes of chasing it he looked around to find he had been led adrift. 

Sherlock had no idea how much he had traveled, and the echoing was beginning to make him feel dizzy once more, the water around him pressing on him despite the spell he had casted, like something unnatural was attempting to either pull him in or expel him out of the ocean. Thankfully, the violet-haired boy was nothing if not stubborn, and being in the water was already distressing enough to render any other feeling of anxiety moot. No matter if his siren sister wanted him out of her dominion, or even if this was her attempt of an attack, he would not abandon his search so easily. 

He barrelled forward, reciting enchantments to counter every malediction the tides were trying to inflict on him. If the ocean wanted him out, it would have a hard time achieving it. John could attest to the fact that if he wanted to stay, there was no force, natural or otherwise, that could move him. He ignored the siren song, knowing it only wanted to strand him or guide him too far out into the sea he wouldn’t be able to find his way back home; his eyes were his best lighthouse now, as he followed the route he had mapped out before and inspected for clues under the magical glow of the jellyfish. 

After some time, he was almost anxious to give up, the sun probably threatening to rise soon and he was not looking forward to the questions that would arise were he to come late to breakfast. _‘Oh! I was out all night searching for my deranged half sister and found impossible magic-sucking fire and creepy human statues at the bottom of the ocean.’_ was not an answer John would appreciate much. Specially since he had the peculiar habit of wanting —nay, _needing_ — to accompany him whenever the situation looked dangerous. Sherlock deduced he never really did shake off his dream of becoming a healer or a knight. 

However, he felt as if he had no right to abandon his search this early; he was responsible for the majority of the things happening at the moment. And with that thought in mind, he proceeded. Turning to go back and try another area, but he halted when he encountered himself in dire circumstances again. 

There, at the bottom of depths unknown, little blue flames were burning underwater, scattered around the ocean floor like tiny candles. Too many to count. _Far_ too many to contain; and he was probably the only one in the kingdom who knew about them.

His insides twisted at the sight, as his blood curdled and the unavoidable need to breathe real air became imperative in his soul. He gasped, not recognising his own reactions, and found the grip on his spell waning, slipping through his fingers as his intention was completely erased from his mind. The honesty gone from his adamant statement of wanting to remain in the water a moment longer. Sherlock recognised he had lost, and had to get to the surface or the chasm would break and he would drown in the very near future. 

Swiftly, he swam upwards to the best of his abilities, trying to aid himself with a bit of magic, but to no avail, his clothed figure and frightened brain pulled him under with every move he made. He gasped for air, his lungs burning at the lack of oxygen as his limbs struggled to save him. The tiny sparks around him still shinning, going blurry as his vision swam. 

Then, as he started to ponder the real possibility of dying, he felt something at his back, some invisible force that pushed him upwards and all but threw him out of the sea. The moment his figure broke out of the water line he felt life return to him in a rush of clear oxygen. The curse echoing inside his brain vanished into the very early morning air while he panted and fought to stay afloat. The wet curls on his head were plastered to his forehead as he frowned and looked around, trying to figure out what had happened. His kaleidoscope eyes soon found the shore. There, in the distance, beneath the now lilac brush strokes in the sky, was the golden castle of Auradon’s royal family, standing in the middle of obscured flora and a thriving city. What Sherlock had come to know only as _‘John’s home’_ and which made his chest constrict at the mere sight of. Although that could very well be the oxygen deprivation. 

Not bothered —or willing— to attempt swimming that far, the violet-haired figured out an enchantment for the waves around him to bring him there, and after a few moments his body was finally emerging at the beach, wet to the bone in the silent white sand coast. 

With a flick of his hand Sherlock returned his figure and hair to their original perfection and sighed, resisting the urge to stew; definitely not displaying what John often called _‘one of his sulks’_. He would figure it out, and no amount of vast oceans would stop him. He could take everything this kingdom could throw at him and _more._

Granted, the rebel would have been enraged to come home empty handed if it weren’t for the fact that new mysteries were as appealing to him as the most delicious chocolate-dipped strawberries. He decided the situation was beyond what he had ever experienced and, not taking into account the bruised confidence, he was adamant to solve it. No matter how unsolvable it looked, how _surreal_ it had been. Were he prone to flights of fancy as John was, he would say it all had felt as if a dream had swallowed him into its clutches. 

He made his way back to the castle with sure steps, the rising sun over the Auradon landscape a backdrop as he walked towards the day and left the night behind. Not remembering that a dream long left untended would surely become a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for this short interlude. I hope you all liked it.
> 
> Stay tuned for the final part of the series (The Broken Dream) coming next month!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, check out my other stories.


End file.
